Classic Poem

Contarini . The Englishmen indeed, Sir, have graced us,
Not we the Englishmen. How instantly
Sebastian's friends laid himself out o' the boat,
Before our thoughts had time to find themselves,
And gave us back our pale one.
Molino . Like a god
In his own element. 'Twas a strange thing, —
That sudden shock. I never knew the like
Happen before in Venice, though our gondolas
Serve us for every purpose of the road,
And pierce about like fish
Cont. It marred so too
The stately self-possession of the day,
Especially before our naval emulators
How Malipiero's vexed!
Mol. He seized directly
Piero, the gondolier, who is supposed
To have meant this mischief out of some revenge
Towards his good master; and conveyed him off
With his fierce fist against the scoundrel's throat.
Cont. That's settled then. Some singular punishment
Will mark this singular disgrace of Venice.

Enter S EBASTIAN

Mol. How are the ladies now?
Sebastian . Quite well again.
'Twas but a fright at last, though a severe one.
Fiammetta sparkles like a flower new washed,
And turns it all, as she is wont to do,
To chearfulness and grace.
Cont. A charming lady.
But how's your mother?
Seb. She's recovered too;
Yet though she had no drowning, takes on still,
Kissing my sister's hand, and cheek, and pressing her,
And then again turning to plenteous tears,
As if she wept for all that might have happened.
Mol. I have observed it so: the heart, as 'twere,
Takes pity on itself, and so turns fond
On its own gentle nature
Seb. Yes, when tears
Come, as these do, seldom, and out of sweetness.
My dearest mother is of a true clay,
Much like her daughter; only former trouble —
The loss of a loved partner, — made her quit
The dance, and sit her down in a still patience,
Happy to see us nevertheless enjoy it.
She seldom weeps: but now that this rude shock
Has shaken up the long-collecting fountains,
She bathes her heart's great thirst.

Enter C ANDIAN

Cand. Piero's escaped.
Seb. Escaped?
Cand. Escaped, — in an unguarded moment.
Poor Malipiero reddens for mere rage,
And will not patiently endure to hear
Even the English praised: — he says their coming
Is a bad omen.
Mol. 'Tis his vehemence.
He's vexed at the escape; and to speak truly,
I think his natural emulation chides him
For not being quicker than the Englishman
Cont. He'll make it up to him with double praise.
This jealousy in noble spirits runs forth
For its own self, only to turn again
With a new shape of ardour, and perform
Another's messages to fame more quickly.
Seb. It does so. I have heard my noble friend
Our visitor say, that spirits which have wings
Of muscular root enough to winnow up,
As they go on, the petty from the great,
Find something more successful than success
Itself, or rather than the name of it, —
Succeeding most where they most realize
Their own calm world of beauty, and inspire
A self-divested sense of it in others:
Like odour-wafting airs in summer-time,
In which the odour's praised, though not the air.
Cand. 'Tis wondered at by some, that Piero escaped;
And certainly 'tis strange, especially
As his own tribe are jealous of their fame,
And fall, like clamorous birds, upon foul play.
Yet as to what concerns our anxious friend,
Who is to wonder, that a spirit like his,
Unused to keep constrained its very thoughts,
Should let his generous hand forget its hold,
And find it a bad jail.
Cont. Who, Sir, indeed?
But we'll detain you, gentlemen, no longer
From our fair friends: pray tell them of our joy,
And willing envy of the Englishman.
Cand. Nay we will praise, and thank him, but not envy.
We can afford, I hope, to let a foreigner
Plunge in our waters for a lady's sake,
Without making the windows stare the wider,
And lift their stony brows up in astonishment.
But he's a gallant fellow, and we'll tell him so